


Uncrowned

by inlovewithnight



Category: Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: M/M, Winner's Room (Hockey RPF), rookie forfeit, the red wings swedish mafia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-04
Updated: 2020-12-04
Packaged: 2021-03-10 06:35:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,346
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27879958
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inlovewithnight/pseuds/inlovewithnight
Summary: Gabe has to learn how they do things here in the NHL.
Relationships: Gabriel Landeskog/Henrik Zetterberg
Comments: 2
Kudos: 36
Collections: Consent Issues Exchange 2020





	Uncrowned

**Author's Note:**

  * For [blueorangecrush](https://archiveofourown.org/users/blueorangecrush/gifts).



> Please note this was written for the consent_issues exchange and is a dubcon/noncon fic.

EJ waits with Gabe after the first loss his rookie year. “It’s not the same as in the O,” he says, with that extra edge in his voice that Gabe is learning means he’s being serious for once. “It’s… it’s different, and I just want you to be aware of that. You’ll be okay, I think. But you should just be prepared.” 

Gabe isn’t all that nervous, honestly. Yeah, it’s different from the O, he knows that, but still, he sucked his share of dicks in Kitchener. He knows his way around a dick. He can do this. 

EJ’s leg is jittering. He looks tense and pissed off and… _haunted_ , is the word that comes to Gabe’s mind, but that can’t be right, so he pushes it away again. He’s worked hard to shed the Europeanness that they made fun of him for in Kitchener. He’s changed how he dresses and how he acts and he’s worked on his English until he dreams in it, but once in a while a word will throw him. He’ll look at a dictionary later and find the word that matches the look on EJ’s face. 

“It’s the Red Wings,” Gabe says finally, hoping that will make EJ relax. “The Swedish Mafia, right? Lidstrom, or if he doesn’t want to do it, Zetterberg probably. Or Kronwall. They’re not going to be rough with me, we’ll be on the same team for international games. Can’t mess things up for Tre Kronor.” 

EJ’s leg goes still, and he looks at Gabe in a way that makes Gabe flinch back. It’s his _are you an idiot_ look, and it always makes Gabe feel that the answer must be _yes_ even if he doesn’t know why. 

But instead of scolding him, EJ takes a deep breath and nods. “Yeah. I guess you’re right. The other A is Datsyuk, and he never… he doesn’t do the rookie thing. He’s religious or whatever, you know?” 

Gabe nods, because everyone knows that about Datsyuk, about how he struggled with the NHL’s traditions and expectations. The Red Wings had worked out an exemption for him his own rookie year, shielding him from being sent to the other locker rooms when they lost. Yzerman took a lot of heat for it on the ice. The bitterness had lingered for years. 

Gabe is sure the KHL must have its own traditions, different things that tie back into the Russian culture, the way rookies on Swedish teams prepare the fika and in Finland they have to wait to use the sauna last. The NHL’s traditions are more brutally straightforward in their way, but that fits with being North American, doesn’t it? 

“We’ve been waiting a long time,” he says, suddenly desperate to talk instead of think. “Maybe they’re not coming? Maybe they don’t want me.” He doesn’t believe that, not really. He looks good and he plays well and they lost the game. He’s owed to the victors and they’ll claim him when they’re good and ready. 

EJ looks pissed again, rubbing at his jaw and staring off into space. Gabe wondered, idly, who sat with him in the room like this, his rookie season. If whoever it was told him to be careful and be prepared, or maybe made dirty jokes and laughed with him to get him to relax. He kind of wishes EJ had gone that route with him, honestly. It would be nice to be relaxing right now instead of absorbing EJ’s tension and beginning to feel like he might climb the walls. 

“It’s different,” EJ says suddenly, his voice choppy. “First overall, second and third overall, it’s different for guys like us. Not on purpose, I don’t think, but with how we come right up usually, that whole not getting time in the AHL, it makes it…” 

Whatever he’s going to say, it’s lost in the door opening. Zetterberg and Kronwall both step inside, and EJ and Gabe get to their feet. 

“Sorry for making you wait,” Zaeta says, his voice soft and courteous like always. “Coach talks too much.” 

“Not a problem,” EJ says stiffly. “Any questions? Our curfew time is one AM.” 

“We’ll bring him to the hotel no later than zero-forty-five.” Zaeta glances at Kronwall and jerks his head toward Gabe. “Niklas, take him back to the room. We have our own supply kits, so you can take his things back to the hotel with you.” 

Kronwall’s hand is like a cement block resting on Gabe’s shoulder, guiding him away and out the door before he can pull his thoughts together enough to say anything. The last thing he hears EJ say is “Bring him back in one piece.” Zaeta’s response is an indistinct mumble as the door swings shut behind them. 

“You’re new at this,” Kronwall says. It’s not a question. “Has Hejduk told you anything?” 

“No.” Gabe stumbles, but Kronwall keeps him moving along, scrambling to regain his balance. “And EJ just… hinted.” 

Kronwall sighs. “They come up with these systems and then make them so mysterious, like they’re ashamed of them. Well. You’ll see when we get to the room.” 

Maybe a joke will break the tension, though it’s so glacial that Gabe isn’t sure breaking it is possible. “I take it I won’t be making fika.” 

Kronwall stops and looks at him, the same way EJ did but even sharper. _Are you an idiot_ coated in ice. Gabe feels his face flame red and bites down on his tongue. 

“No,” Kronwall says finally, nudging him forward again. “There’s none of that here.” 

Joe Louis Arena is old enough that the victory room was retrofitted out of a training room instead of being planned for and built in. There’s a bed and a padded bench, and a chest of drawers pushed up against one wall. The bench has restraints attached to it; the bed doesn’t. Gabe’s throat dries up, looking around the room. Things are much clearer now. 

He doesn’t realize he’s frozen in the doorway until Kronwall gently pushes him into the room. “You have a choice,” he says, his voice clipped and controlled. “If you think you’ll need the restraints to keep from fighting, we can do that. If you think you can relax and take it, then just get on the bed.” 

Gabe nods, looking around the room again, anywhere but at Kronwall’s face. “Should I get undressed first?” 

“Yes. Put your clothes over there.” He waves at the chest of drawers. “Henke should be here by now, I don’t know what’s keeping him.” 

“Probably EJ.” Gabe tugs his t-shirt over his head, grateful for years in locker rooms. If he wasn’t so used to undressing in front of a crowd, he might feel exposed now. As it is, he can get on with it. “He… I don’t think he approves of this, entirely.” 

“No, I imagine not.” Kronwall leans back out the door, looking down the hallway. “I remember his first year. He didn’t make anything easy on himself.” 

Gabe’s hands stumble in getting his sweatpants off, his eyes jerking to the padded bench and its restraints. Thinking about EJ, a younger EJ, when all his cynicism was still defiance, in this very room, maybe on that very bench, fighting back while Yzerman or Lidstrom or whoever took the forfeit pushed him down and just— 

His brain refuses to fill in the blank. Even in his imagination it just whites out. 

The door opens wider and Zaeta steps in, face as stoic and unreadable as ever, though there’s a flash of annoyance in his eyes that Gabe’s almost positive can be attributed to EJ. Zaeta closes the door behind him and leans in close to Kronwall, the two of them talking quietly while Gabe finishes undressing and sits down on the edge of the bed. 

Zaeta sighs at something and steps away from Kronwall, then unzips his sweatshirt. He hangs it over the doorknob and strips out of his t-shirt and sweats, moving with the same brusque locker-room efficiency Gabe noted in himself. “Tell me, Gabbe, do you get fucked often or no?” 

The nickname throws him more than he expects. His throat goes dry again and he chokes on his answer, coughing a few times before he tries again. “Uh. No, I… I don’t.” 

“All right. Then we’ll need to go slower.” He jerks his head at Kronwall, who moves over to the chest of drawers and opens the top one. Gabe can’t see what’s in it, can’t see anything around Kronwall’s broad body. He stares at that instead, his mind zeroing in on the puzzle of why Kronwall is still fully dressed, but still here. 

Zaeta’s hand on his shoulder brings him back to himself with a start. Zaeta’s as naked as he is, and as casual about it, his cock resting soft between his thighs. He studies Gabe’s face for a moment, then moves his hand from Gabe’s shoulder to his jaw, cupping it gently. His thumb strokes in slow, careful arcs along the bone. Gabe almost wants to lean into the touch, pretend it’s something intimate, pretend any of them are here because they _want_ to be, instead of because it’s required by rules made up a long time ago by men who might have meant something else entirely beneath what they wrote down. 

“What do you want me to do?” Gabe asks quietly. Zaeta grimaces a little; Gabe might worry that he’s done something wrong, except that he watched a lot of interviews with this man at home and here, and he knows that Zaeta’s face just does that when he’s thinking. 

“Get me hard with your mouth and then I’ll fuck you.” The bluntness makes Gabe’s breath hitch. They’re not going to put any pretense on, then. Not going to pretty it up. “I don’t think it would be doing you any favors not to, you know? The other teams won’t give a pass. You’ll have to take it at some point, the first time might as well be here.” 

He could hear that as an apology. Maybe it’s even meant to be one. But it’s so flat, so matter-of-fact, that it doesn’t _matter_. Whether he wants it or not, this is going to happen. 

So he nods and licks his lips, and doesn’t pull away when Zaeta’s thumb slides to the corner of his mouth and pushes inside. Gabe’s eyes flick to Kronwall again, who’s standing there by the bed like a chaperon, holding lube and condoms in one hand and watching them with an indifferent expression. “Is… is Nik staying?” Gabe asks, not sure if it matters. Not sure if his question matters, either. He doesn’t get a choice in this room. 

“Yes.” Zaeta rubs Gabe’s lower lip, then pulls his hand away. “You know recordings aren’t allowed.” Gabe nods; the CBA stipulates that, as well as that no serious damage can be done to the rookies, followed by a three-page itemized list of what constitutes serious damage. “It’s easier to make sure everyone’s operating in good faith if there’s a nonparticipant witness.” 

Gabe wants to puzzle through that—whose good faith? His or Zaeta’s or their respective teams or something else, above and beyond?—but there isn’t time, he doesn’t have a chance. Zaeta is climbing up on the bed, his hand resting on the center of Gabe’s chest and pushing him backward until he’s lying down on his back. Then he moves to straddle Gabe’s chest, careful not to let his weight rest on him, the blunt head of his cock dangling low enough to bump Gabe’s lips. 

He’s still soft. Not even into this. Gabe’s going to have to work to bring about his own ritual. All of this is so fucking weird. 

He looks up and meets Zaeta’s eyes, just for a minute. This man was one of his heroes, playing at home in Sweden, then in the OHL, and even when he realized he’d be starting with the Avs the idea of playing against the Swedish Mafia of the Red Wings had sent his heart racing. He’d known there would be wins and losses. He just never followed that thought to its conclusion. He never followed it here. 

Zaeta sighs, a resigned sound that expresses _I have to do everything myself_ all too clearly. He takes himself in hand and rubs the head of his cock against Gabe’s lower lip, watching the slide of skin on skin instead of looking Gabe in the eye. Gabe swallows and opens his mouth, taking the last inch or so in and licking carefully. Warm, salty; just like in Kitchener, like he told EJ, except down there the captain of the other team was always hard and eager when he came to take what he wanted, and the rules said it couldn’t go any further than sucking cock anyway. Usually it was less than ten minutes in the room, from bitching at each other to rough thrusting to jizz splashing across his face to wiping himself clean again. 

This is going to be different—is different, already, with the tense control in Zetterberg’s body, how his gaze is still on Gabe’s mouth, watching the end of his cock move against Gabe’s lips while Gabe suckles awkwardly at it. The position is bad; he can’t do much this way. The only way it’s going to be any better is if Zaeta pulls himself together and fucks his face, which he doesn’t show any signs of doing. Gabe pulls away with a frustrated sigh and pushes a little at Zaeta’s chest. 

“You lie down, let me get on my knees. It’ll be better.” 

Somewhere off to one side, Kronwall snorts a laugh, and the corner of Zaeta’s mouth twitches, too. “All right,” he says, easing away from Gabe and turning over on his back. He settles with his knees bent and spread apart in lazy invitation, and Gabe moves to kneel between them, resting his hands on either side of Zaeta’s hips. From this angle he can admire the solid muscles of Zaeta’s core and thighs—not visible photo-ready muscles but solid, powerful ones, a body built to do the work of skating up and down the ice, pushing around or right through defenders, holding the balance on knife-edges while the upper body twists and shoots and scores. 

Gabe lowers his head and breathes in the smell of him, heavy around the tangle of hair at the base, then settles himself and takes the cock in his mouth properly, as much of the length as he can manage. Just like being back in Kitchener, on his knees in the forfeit room, sucking the captain from Barrie or Oshawa or wherever. Zaeta’s not fucking up into his mouth or trying to make him gag, which is nice. He’s getting hard fast, too, a little ego boost for Gabe as he gets used to the stretch and taste and starts to move his head, working Zaeta over. 

He hears a low sigh and glances up to see Zaeta rubbing his hand over his face, hiding his eyes and then his mouth before looking down and meeting Gabe’s gaze. They watch each other for what feels like a long time but can’t be, and then Zaeta moves his hand again, bringing it down to cup the back of Gabe’s head and push him down firmly, until his nose is buried in the thick curls and Zaeta’s cock is filling his throat. 

It’s not comfortable, but not as bad as some of those hyped-up guys from fucking Sarnia or wherever. He closes his eyes and swallows around the intrusion, making Zaeta groan again and grip his head harder. Gabe’s hair is cut short enough that he can’t pull it, but Zaeta’s fingers flex like he wants to, and somehow that’s the thing that makes Gabe’s own cock twitch for the first time in all of this. 

This isn’t about him, though. After another moment, Zaeta lets go of him and pushes at his shoulder, cuing him to back off. “All right. Good.” Zaeta’s face is flushed now, red to his cheekbones and with sweat at his jaw and hairline. Gabe feels a flash of smug pride, seeing that—he might be the rookie, and his team might have lost, but he _did that_. He’s going to make Zaeta _remember_ this. 

Zaeta glances over Gabe’s shoulder, back where Kronwall must be, because the lube and condoms land on the bed next to Gabe. Zaeta nods at them and raises his eyebrows. “Go ahead and get yourself ready.” 

Gabe frowns at him and sits back on his heels. “You don’t want to do it?” 

“I’d rather watch you.” He says it flatly, not like the idea turns him on but because he just doesn’t want to do it himself, and Gabe’s moment of pride fades out. Zaeta isn’t going to remember this at all; it’s just part of the job, putting his dick in another team’s rookie because his team put more goals in the net that night. 

Gabe shifts around so he can’t see Zaeta’s face anymore before he opens the lube and slicks his fingers. He draws his leg back so he can reach himself and pushes one finger in, grunting a little at the feeling. He doesn’t really know how to do this, honestly—like he told Zaeta, he doesn’t bottom often; he’s only done it twice, and both times were while he was so drunk off his face that he wouldn’t have noticed if the dick inside him was horse-sized. 

“Jesus,” Kronwall says after a moment, and Gabe nearly falls off the bed. “Let me help you or you’re never going to be ready for him.” 

“I—” He doesn’t understand at first, but before anything starts to make sense Kronwall is pushing Gabe’s thighs apart with one hand and grabbing the lube with the other. 

Gabe’s vaguely aware of Zaeta still stretched out on the bed; a quick glance confirms that he’s lounging against the pillows and watching them with his usual carefully blank stoicism that verges on boredom. He’s not going to do anything, Gabe realizes; he won’t interfere, he won’t even _say_ anything as Kronwall pushes his own slick fingers into Gabe’s ass. 

He’s not cruel, but he’s not gentle, either. Gabe squirms, gasping at the intrusion, his body instinctively trying to get away by crawling up the bed. He feels the mattress shift as Zaeta moves, and for a heartbeat he thinks maybe he was wrong, maybe— 

But instead of pulling him back, Zaeta’s hands grip Gabe’s shoulders, holding him still. “Relax,” he says softly. “It’s always better if you relax. Nik isn’t going to hurt you. He’s making sure I don’t hurt you either.” 

Gabe can hear his own breath, rapid and gasping. Zaeta leans in close, speaking directly in his ear. “You’re going to be a captain yourself, you know. We all know it. Sooner than you think, probably. You need to know how to do this. How to take charge of this. You can’t make it stop, none of us can, it’s the way things are and they won’t change it. But you can make it easier. Do you understand?” 

Kronwall’s fingers are spreading, stretching him. Gabe chokes out a sound and nods. 

“Don’t pretend you can make it _good_. It’s not good. It never will be.” There’s a dark edge in Zaeta’s voice, and Gabe thinks about the look in EJ’s eyes, back in the room. He wonders what rooms Zaeta went into when he was a rookie, what it was like then. The end of the 90s, the league was lawless, he’s heard all of those stories. Things were different. 

Different than _this_? 

Kronwall pulls his hand away and nods to Zaeta, who gives Gabe’s shoulders another gentle squeeze and then lets go. “On your back or your knees?” he asks, like he’s offering Gabe a choice of drinks or a sandwich or something. 

Gabe swallows down the flash of anger and shrugs. “Knees, I guess? Easier that way.” 

“It is.” Zaeta strokes himself a few times, bringing his cock back to full hardness, and reaches for the condom packet. Gabe arranges himself on his hands and knees, staring down at the mattress, stomach churning with too many feelings for him to sort out while he’s still in this room, with these men, his future _teammates_. He’ll play alongside them at the Olympics and the IIHF. They’ll wear the Tre Kronor jerseys together, yellow and blue, and every time they look at him they’ll be seeing him like _this_. 

Anger rises up again, cutting through the mess of other feelings. He focuses on it, letting it fill up his head, offering him clarity like cold water. Anger makes more sense than anything else. He can rely on it. 

Zaeta moves behind him and takes hold of his hips, thumbs rubbing carefully against the bones. Gabe narrows his focus to a single patch of the bedding, where a thread snagged at some point and is curled up above the rest of the weave. He stares at that while Zaeta’s cock pushes into him, solid and fast and deep, and he doesn’t make a sound, not even a whimper. 

He hears Kronwall clear his throat, not like he’s trying to get their attention but just because it’s dry. That’s worse; if he wanted Gabe to look at him at least it would be acknowledging that this is _happening_. Instead he’s just standing there wishing he could get a bottle of water, while Zaeta fucks Gabe slow and hard and Gabe stares down at the blanket, at that damn thread. 

He expects it to last a long time, but either Zaeta is tired or he wants to get this over with, because it isn’t very long at all before he grunts and stills, his hands tightening on Gabe’s hips. Gabe’s grateful for the condom, grateful that he doesn’t have to feel the gush of semen inside of him, that he won’t have _that_ memory to contend with when he meets these men’s eyes across the locker room in whatever country they meet in to represent Sweden. He thinks—he hopes—that they’re professional enough to never bring it up, but that doesn’t mean he won’t remember. 

Zaeta pulls away from him slowly, one hand lingering on his hip and the other presumably moving to catch the condom. Gabe hunches his shoulders, hiding his face against the blanket for a moment and schooling his face into rigid blankness. This didn’t change him. Didn’t break him. It’s a ritual, it’s part of the NHL, it’s just another combine. He can take it. He’s strong. He was second overall. He’s— 

“Is there anything else?” he asks, his voice hoarse and catching in his throat. “Or are we done?” 

“That’s all.” Thank god, Zaeta’s voice is flat. No pity, nothing to dig hooks into Gabe’s skin and make him _feel_ anything. “Here, take this.” 

Gabe reaches back without looking and takes a damp washcloth. “Thank you.” 

“There are dry ones over there, and Gatorade. We’ll wait outside. Nik.” There’s quiet command in that last word, and Gabe hears both sets of shoes cross the room to the door, which opens and closes with a soft click, leaving him blissfully alone. 

He stays huddled for a moment, taking a deep breath and letting it go, before he rises up on his knees and reaches back to clean himself. Shit and lube, mixed together and streaked down his thighs. At least it wipes off easily enough. He climbs off the bed for a dry towel, wipes a second time with that, then takes another and uses it to rub the sweat from his face and hair. He’s probably a complete mess, but thank god again, there’s no mirror in here. 

He takes a few sips of the Gatorade, but it tastes too sweet in his mouth, thick and sickly. He puts the cap back on and gets dressed instead, covering himself up layer by layer, envisioning it as the same kind of armor as when he puts his gear on. Safe. Guard up. Ready. 

When he opens the door, Zetterberg and Kronwall are standing side by side facing it, their backs to the opposite wall. EJ is at the end of the hall, where it crosses the corridor that leads to the locker rooms. His face is red, his hands shoved deep in his pockets; it doesn’t take a genius to guess that words have been had, and that the two Red Wings came out superior. 

Gabe doesn’t give a fuck. “Goodnight,” he says, in Swedish for their benefit. “I suppose I’ll see you again later in the season.” 

Zetterberg’s mouth turns in a smile, though his eyes don’t change. “On the ice anyway. Perhaps your team will take that one and you won’t see us again personally.” 

Fuck him, Gabe thinks, white-hot, _fuck_ him. “That’s the plan, yes.” 

“Good luck,” Kronwall says, his eyes flicking down the hall to EJ again. “Take your boy and go on before he does something stupid. They’re good at that in Denver.” 

“We’ve called a car for you,” Zetterberg says, giving Kronwall a reproving look. “It’s waiting outside, it’ll take you right to your hotel. You’ve got plenty of time before curfew.” 

Gabe bites down on his tongue and nods, starting down the hall. He doesn’t limp. He doesn’t miss a step. He can do this, he’s strong. He’s going to be a captain. He’s going to play for Tre Kronor. He’s going to show them all that he can go through everything the NHL has to throw at him and come out the other side even better. He’ll become what the NHL wants him to be. No matter what. He can do it. 

“You okay?” EJ asks quietly. Gabe nods, his neck and jaw stiff from holding them rigid, his back so straight his shoulders ache. 

“Yeah,” he says. “Let’s go. I understand now.”


End file.
